He had felt the tension rising, so he did the sensible thing—leaned back, creating room between them, giving her the distance she seemed to deserve. But the moment he shifted away, she followed. Her step was subtle, unhurried, until the curve of her hip grazed against his side. The contact was too light to be an accident, too precise to be dismissed.
She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even glance at him. Instead, she carried on with her words, her tone calm, her expression almost detached—while her body betrayed her. The brush of her hip lingered, pressed just firmly enough to make him feel the shape of her. He stayed still, caught between disbelief and desire, his own restraint unraveling under the weight of what she hadn’t said but had made unmistakably clear.
When she finally shifted again, stepping away as though nothing had happened, he was left with the ghost of her touch, seared into him more deeply than a kiss. Sometimes closeness isn’t taken—it’s given. And the most dangerous gifts are the ones wrapped in deliberate accidents.